Traffic was stirring;
Slow hum was red carriage,
Telegraphs written
With leaves on heavy feet,
Electronic voyeur head
Watches an inch
On a twenty four hour list
The invisible depot,
Earth lung on lay lines
And where lies the fire king’s trolley?
Under the west bridge canopy,
Brush sweep repeat
Grey dirt hardened soil,
To be in presence
Of sweeper and goons
And drunk Russian
Desperate for a word
Moon dog swinging,
Slow dance to the car stream,
Glowing boiler suit blues,
From the bay of kidnapped,
With heads and eyes in operation
Not noticing the sacred sway of the sweep
Gliding on street like child with snow
